


until it disappeared from me (from you)

by poiisons



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Episode Related, Gen, M/M, Season Finale, Season/Series 09, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 05:24:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1676327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poiisons/pseuds/poiisons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Contains canon-compliant major character death and spoilers for 9x23. Can be read as Wincest, or not.)</p><p>Dean wasn't waking up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	until it disappeared from me (from you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [salvacests](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salvacests/gifts).



> this is for salvacests/samqueerchester/fiftyshadesofsalvacest, you fucking trashbag <3
> 
> Title from "To Build a Home" by The Cinematic Orchestra.

In hindsight, Sam wasn’t really thinking clearly when he brought Dean into his room. The fierce need for physical closeness that came whenever one of them was hurt or dying was still running strong through his veins, and all he could think about is that when Dean woke up, he would be mad about getting blood on his sheets.

Except Dean wasn’t waking up.

Dean was lying still in Sam’s bed, cold and only getting colder, blood congealing red-brown on his skin.

 _He’s gonna bitch about having to wash that out of his hair_ , Sam thinks absently, shifting foot to foot in the doorway. He expects Dean to open his eyes any moment, struggling to sit up and clutching at his wounds, grunting out a gruff “Heya, Sammy.”

But Dean isn’t waking up.

Sam stepped into the room, hands trembling around his glass of whiskey. He had hoped his hands would stop shaking after the first few drinks, but it was only getting worse and he was starting to lose count. They’d been shaking non-stop ever since—since hands fluttering uselessly over his brother, pressing over his wounds to try and hold in the blood that wouldn’t stop flowing out, thick rivulets pumping out with each beat of Dean’s heart—

Dean’s heart isn’t beating anymore. Sam can feel it, still and not-beating where he’s got his palm flat over his chest. He isn’t quite sure when he sidled up this close to the bed, but he lost his glass somewhere between here and the doorway. He can’t really bring himself to care about the mess.

Dean would care about the mess. It’s a good thing they’re not in his room, because he’d make Sam clean it up before he—

A wave of dizziness comes over Sam. He should probably lay down. Too much alcohol, too fast. Dean always teased him about not being able to hold his liquor. There hadn’t been much of that lately—the brotherly banter, the casual touches, the—

The room swam as Sam sat down gingerly on the bed. He didn’t want to wake Dean. He needed his rest, needed to save his energy and heal up quick. Dean was irritable when he was bedridden, especially when he had stitches—he needed stitches. Sam would need to stitch him up once his hands stopped shaking.

Sam brushed light fingers over Dean’s cheek, hands still quivering. His skin was cool to the touch, freckles ashy underneath the blood.

There wasn’t quite enough room on the bed for both of them. Sam slipped an arm behind Dean’s neck, crossing the other across his chest.

“Dean,” Sam said, clutching him closer.

Dean didn’t respond.


End file.
